Tent
by Lensky
Summary: Tseng, Sephiroth, in Wutai, before the war proper.


The encampment is spread out at the edge of dense forest, beyond which the central mountains of the continent rise in the distance. It's crowded and the air is thick with the smell of thousands of men, cloying, almost unbearable in the humidity. He picks his way between endless rows of dirty green tents, ignoring the milling infantrymen who look up to stare gormlessly as he passes. The Shinra flag is flying at the four lookout posts cornering the camp, and also from one huge tent in the centre, which Tseng understands is used to gather the troops for meals, briefings, orders, and so on. Once he reaches the centre, he looks around for another tent larger than the rest and spots it immediately. A silver banner hangs over the entrance. Tseng doesn't hesitate for a moment – he pushes it aside and enters the General's tent.

Sephiroth is standing next to a low table, poring over what looks like a detailed map of the countryside. He looks up as Tseng enters, and the Turk feels a rush of adrenaline, feels his heart start pounding.

Sephiroth looks absolutely terrifying. He's wearing black trousers, gloves and combat boots, and he's shirtless; two black straps are buckled into the trousers and cross over his chest – Masamune is clipped between his shoulder blades. His clothes and skin are covered in dried dirt and blood. His hair is a dirty silver and hangs limply almost to the ground, shot through with grime and stained with blood and dirt. His eyes gleam a piercing, violent green. His expression is one of broken concentration, followed by momentary shock and then, nothing.

For long seconds, Tseng stares at him and cannot find any words.

* * *

Sephiroth wipes the sweat off his brow with a dirty forearm and continues frowning down at the map in front of him, which does not appear to match up with the reality of the landscape surrounding the encampment. He has no idea how to move the troops forward. Persistent, incomprehensible thoughts crowd his mind, clamouring for attention. He can almost hear them. The heat and the smell and the humidity press in against him on all sides. He can barely focus his attention on the map.

Somebody shoves aside the banner hanging over the entrance to his tent and strides inside. He looks up. Somehow, it's Tseng. He blinks in confusion. Somehow, the Turk is utterly immaculate, barely a hair out of place in the oppressive heat, not a trace of dirt on his polished boots. Sephiroth knows he is being looked up and down. Tseng is wearing a frown with a trace of disgust. A voice in Sephiroth's head suddenly cuts through the clamouring and is clear as a bell – _reach for Masamune! – _he feels a stab of shock and firmly pushes the thought aside.

"General."

He doubts he is imagining the sarcasm in the Turk's voice. He gestures around him with gloved hands.

"Tseng. What are you doing here?"

Tseng looks around quickly. There's no floor to the tent, just the scrubby grass. Sephiroth's personal quarters may be spacious but it's largely empty space. His bed is a simple mat on the ground; same as any other soldier. The main things in the tent are crates of supplies – mostly weapons – and some stacks of documents, mostly maps.

"I ask myself that." Tseng shakes his head, crosses his arms. "You look… fucking terrible."

Sephiroth glances down at himself, smiles wryly, fleetingly. From somewhere, the words come to him, "Well. You look perfect, as ever."

The comment does not appear to land well. Tseng flicks his hair out of his face in a gesture of irritation.

"What the fuck happened at those two villages, Sephiroth?"

There's a pause. Then Sephiroth says, "Are you here on clean up?" and then Tseng is shaking his head, speaking quickly, and Sephiroth is concentrating hard to try and catch every word - "No, no. Just unfortunate enough to encounter the massacre. Gaia, Sephiroth, what the _hell_ are you proposing to do, kill every Wutain between here and the Capital? Every child? I told you, these people do not surrender. They don't _know_ surrender. Are you listening to me?" He's walking up to Sephiroth now. "Are you hearing me?!"

* * *

Sephiroth is oddly expressionless; Tseng has the impression almost that the other man can't hear him. He steps closer. The General's eyes, behind the glow, look blank. Lifeless.

"Are you hearing me?!"

Sephiroth nods. "I hear you."

Tseng makes a sound of contempt and shakes his head. He takes a deep breath. Looks straight into those blank eyes.

"Your map is wrong, you know."

Sephiroth nods again. "I know."

Tseng points to a spot north of the camp, in the mountains.

"There is no river here. They built a dam many years ago. You are surrounded on three sides by forest, and this forest is dying with every passing dry season. This forest is a matchbox, Sephiroth. You are sitting ducks here. Do you understand this?"

Sephiroth's silence only fills Tseng with a sudden rage.

"You have to _stop_ this, Sephiroth. This isn't the way. This is a waste of life. And this is on you. Do you hear me?" His voice is rising with each sentence. "Do you fucking hear me?" Receiving no reaction, he moves to shove Sephiroth in the shoulder. Sephiroth reaches up in a swift, fluid movement and closes his right hand around Tseng's wrist like a vice. Tseng freezes. It feels as if the Soldier's gloved hand is made of steel. A cold wave of fear hits him – fear of this strength, in this body that he knows so well but apparently does not know at all.

* * *

He can see that the Turk is furious, but he knows that if he lets go of him, Tseng will probably attack him. And he knows he can't let that happen. And he knows he has to say something to try and diffuse the situation, but the clamouring is all-distracting now and he can't think of a thing. He says the only thing he knows to be true in the moment.

"I don't want to hurt you."

It doesn't have the desired effect. Tseng snarls and wrenches at his arm, trying to free himself. "_Fuck_ you. Son of a- fucking-"

Sephiroth starts to drag the swearing, protesting Tseng over to the tent entrance. This is apparently too much for the Turk's pride to bear, and he hears the unmistakable click of the safety-release on Tseng's gun, which has materialized in his left hand. Sephiroth feels his grip tighten involuntarily around Tseng's wrist. He feels sweat break out on his forehead. He looks into Tseng's dark, almond eyes, and feels as if part of him is pitching forwards, falling.

"Going to shoot me, Tseng?"

* * *

Tseng can't see a trace of recognition in Sephiroth's eyes. The other man's voice is flat. He knows Sephiroth isn't going to be intimidated by a gun but he's so angry – and there's a sharp pain shooting up his arm from his wrist now – he half feels like he _could_ shoot him, just to make him-

"Fucking. Let. Go." He raises the gun.

"Leave," says Sephiroth. "Leave here." He half pushes, half throws the Turk out of the tent.

When Tseng gets back to Midgar, he discovers that Sephiroth has crushed each of the eight small bones in his wrist, and fractured both his radius and ulna.


End file.
